


The Bell-Watcher's Daughter

by SeeNashWrite



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Behind-the-scenes canon compliant, Camaraderie, Friendship, Gen, On-the-hunt, Teamwork, The Family Business, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 11:28:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11805084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeNashWrite/pseuds/SeeNashWrite
Summary: Dean meets an acclaimed hunter’s daughter, one who knows a thing or two about the business of dying.





	The Bell-Watcher's Daughter

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: I am *beyond* grateful to @juppschmitz for the time she took to assist in working out some post-publishing kinks in this one - I was able to make a few grey areas much clearer, and slightly alter the tone of the main character, as the original version didn’t ring true to my intent

“Checkmate, you  _ass_.”

Sam’s sputter of the water he’d just downed briefly morphed into coughing before ending with chuckling, but by the time he’d gotten there, she’d already been hard at work.

“You  _handed_ me the Queen to King’s Rook 5, I  _know_ you did.”

“Ha! What can I say, kid? Just been doing it longer. Thought I’d throw you a bone.”

Sam paired rolled eyes with a good-natured grin as he started collecting the pieces and putting them back into the barely-intact cigar box. "I’d beat you at darts,“ he commented lightly.

"You sure you’d like to make that bet?”

“Good  _point_.”

“Oh, Samuel. You pun like your brother.”

“Okay. Ouch.”

“And I’m a killer at billiards. Just not the things that aren't….”

“What?”

“Not… how to put…  _hands-on_. Like crosswords, the number puzzles.  _Anything_ on phones. Apps.  _Bleccchh_.”

“I’m shocked.”

“Hate to break it to you - I’m as old fart as they come.”

“You’re nowhere  _near_ as old-school as I’d have imagined.”

“You  _are_  the mighty fine genius  _I’d_  imagined, Dimples —-”

Sam blushed.

“—- and speaking of the damned things…”

She trailed off as Dean came over the small hill, climbing with the aid of the spear while still managing to look down at Sam’s phone, a glow lighting the bottom half of his face.

“Dimples?” Sam teased, though he knew what she’d meant, and got a wink in response.

“Jury’s still out on out on the genius part,” said Dean, “and we’re officially at the end of the salt supply. Your turn.” Dean fished the car keys from his pocket and in quick succession tossed them, then the phone, at Sam.

“And off I go,” Sam said, returning her wink as he stood and walked out of the graveyard.

Dean dropped the spear next to her, then sat, leaned against the large, ancient oak. Sam had taken the only working flashlight to get to the car, but she didn’t bother to flick on her lantern as Dean settled in. Neither needed the illumination; it  _was_ just nighttime and rows of corpses, after all.

“How’re you getting reception this far out - you got a girlfriend of the oldest profession, perhaps?” she asked.

“Do I  _what?_ ”

“Witchcraft, son,  _witchcraft_.”

Dean grimaced briefly before answering. “Nope. To both. Just reading. The genius, he loads up the lore before we hit the road. And I tell ya, your father…” He let out a low whistle of admiration.

“Ah, so young Sam  _does_ come in handy on occasion?”

Dean snickered, then tilted his head in her direction. “Mostly. You’re not the partnering type, I gather?”

She shook her head. “Papa broke the mold. What all do you believe you know about him? What about  _me_? Good things about  _me_  in the giant’s brick?”

Dean laughed loudly this time. “Sam told you about that?”

“Our current, slightly desolate locale sparked the reminisce, methinks. Thanks for patrolling, you really didn’t have to.”

Dean shrugged. “Woulda been doing it anyhow. Just a lucky break, getting to meet you. Kinda wish we’d run into  _more_  folks like you.”

“Wish you coulda met Papa.”

“Hell, yes.”

“So? C'mon! What all does the brick know?”

Dean pulled a flask from his jacket, took a sip as he pondered, then passed it over. “Best zombie hunter I’ve ever heard about. Present company excepted.”

She raised her eyebrows, and not because of the potent whiskey, which was swallowed without regard for the burn.

“What’s that face?” he asked.

“I think he might have clutched his pearls to hear you call him that. Hunters damn near put him in the ground more than a few times, running around, testing all kinds of nutter ideas. Enough of them still  _were_ when I went solo. Hell, still  _are_. I usually beat them to the punch if I’m anywhere in the neighborhood.“

"Sam and I have gotten on the scene a couple times to find the, ah, leftovers.”

“You boys pyre and fire it up right?”

“And if we got some in the trunk, splash of holy oil for giggles.”

“Anyway, you hunters —-”

Dean side-eyed a  _look_.

“ _—- present company excepted_ \- not  _near_ as annoying as all those newfangled inventions that popped up. ‘Safety coffins’. It was almost  _adorable_. Mama would pull copies of patents every now and then, we’d laugh our asses off. The best were these oven-looking eyesores, with cranks to turn - on the  _inside_. Because people so far gone as to be thought dead, then stuck in an air-tight vault are gonna have the strength to — oh, just  _stupid_.”

She frowned at the memory, guzzled with a fierceness that gave Dean a run for his money. He chuckled before he could help it. But she was on a roll, didn’t lose steam.

“None worked, at least, not for the wakey-wakey, meet-my-stakey crowd, anyway. They don’t expel gas, don’t decomp enough to shift, and they don’t rise on a damn schedule - most of the bits get rusted and jammed.”

“So, the bells.”

She nodded, saying, “If it ain’t broke, reinventing the wheel, all that super-sage advice.”

“The strings don’t fray and snap?”

“Yeah, well, so I miss a few. We can’t all be road-warrior legends, my liege.”

“Nah. Brick says different.”

She shrugged. “Hunters  _do_  love their grave-fire stories.”

“Fine, then. So is the story true? Your father? The ten back in '10?”

“We talking 19th or 20th century?”

Dean’s eyes widened. “It happened  _twice?_ ”

“We got under heavy fire… heavy  _rot_ … more than once, I’m trying to narrow down here, give my old brain a break, whippersnapper.”

“Bull on the old brain. I think it was 19th.”

“ _That_ one? That was  _'67_. And he wasn’t alone, thank-you-very-much. That was the both of us, back at Stull, it’d been in business about five minutes before the dirt-flinging started. That place should be napalmed, but that’s not breaking news for you.”

“You, ah… you know about that?”

Now it was her turn to shoot him a  _look_  before she continued. “Anyway, the most Papa took out alone was twelve —”

“Jeez!”

“— but Mama told me after  _my_ biggest soirée that they came at him usual way they did back then, like they had manners, took turns.”

“Two questions: how many jumped you, when was it? And what do you - you’re talking like - I mean what, you think there’s Thriller fight clubs with rules of engagement?”

“That’s not two questions. And my party guests were the expected five, then three who didn’t RSVP.” She paused, then changed the subject after glancing to the empty flask lying on the sparse grass between them. “I want wine. You want wine? Let’s have some wine.”

Dean manned the spear while she retrieved the bottle from her truck, cork popped, and not a glass or a cup in sight.

“I miss crypts,” she said in a wistful tone, handing him the bottle.

“I beg your damn pardon?”

“They just aren’t popular anymore. I had stashes all over - you know, in those single-serving-family-sized mausoleum things, the ones that butt up to where us commoners are laid to rest.”

They drank in silence for a few moments.

“You stuck the drawer-dwellers in the empty graves to make room, didn’t you?”

“They weren’t being used anymore, don’t judge me.”

“I’m  _admiring_ you.”

“Catacombs get too damp, wreck the corks.”

“I’m sold, really.”

“You like it? That vintage?”

“Not that I know from wine, but it’s great.  _Strong_.”

“My favorite brand.”

“Mine, too.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to sweet-talk me.”

Dean shook his head, amused, then drank more - and a larger amount than he’d intended - eliciting a round of blinking, with a touch of a choke. “Whoo!”

Laughing, she took the bottle from his outstretched hand.

“If  _I_  didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to kill me,” he countered.

The smile on her lips disappeared, and she eyed him at that, a complete once-over, tips-to-toes. “If I was trying to kill you, thinking wouldn’t be an option, my good man.”

Not a flinch to be found on her person.

“Fair enough.”

No flinch there, either, though he didn’t wait long before returning to their earlier conversation.

“Think you could take on the Deadite army like that again?”

“I don’t know.”

Her answer was instant and, Dean was sure of it, absolutely honest. “Why do you say —-”

“They aren’t turning because of viruses, infections, whatever.”

“They might’ve just died, and somebody screwed the pooch and —-”

“I  _check_. And I’m not talking about the necromanced.”

“Wait, you’re — what, you’re taking  _pieces_  to— you stashing microscopes, too?”

“I can get stuck in my ways, but I keep up with the times, I enjoy progress!”

“That truck of yours is older than every bit of this dirt.”

“When you’re my age, lots of networking happens, much of a loner as I can be. I know folks who are comfortable around a lab, and I keep a cooler in  _that truck_  for parts that might  _accidentally_ —”

“Sure.”

“— fall off,  _for science_. I freaking  _love_ science. Hell, sliced bread can take a flying leap compared to vaccines… and microwaves.”

Dean pointed to the bottle. “Not refrigeration.”

“A red like that? Bite your tongue.”

Dean smiled, but she had a feeling it wasn’t due to her ribbing, and he proved her right with what he said next. “The whole not-all-answers-lie-in-the-lore thing… I'm… I’ve been coming around to it lately.”

“Someone being a good influence on you?”

“Something like that.”

He’d tried to tone it down, but the widened smile that accompanied the answer told her it was  _exactly_ like that.

“Tell your influencer to put bell-ringers on the short list, 'cause… past seventy or so years… I’m telling you: they’re different. Like they’re swimming in recharge juice.”

“You mean blood? Or —”

“I don’t know. I just know it’s deep in  _everything_ , soaked into the  _bones_. Then it’s like somebody flips a switch.”

Dean stayed quiet, so she went on.

“Everything under the sun evolves. But this was  _fast_. New breed, new ballgame. They’re coming back quicker, smarter, stronger. Ground doesn’t always go black, doesn’t always have  _time_ to. And even when they’re long gone, they come out looking like…. well, I’d say they’re coming back how w—”

She cut her words off abruptly, but didn’t cut her eyes away from his, and as she’d have predicted, he held her gaze, gave a simple response of understanding.

“Yeah.”

She suddenly straightened, moved into a crouch as she picked up the spear and stared into the night.

“Soup’s on.”

_DING-DING_

_._

* * *

 

_._

“So, uh… real bell-end, that second one.”

She stared.

He shrugged. “Heh.”

They sat by the tree once more. She pulled the chess board and cigar box from her duffel, set them aside, rustled around. Rolls of thick twine, folded leather strips, then a long, narrow, cloth-wrapped bundle were soon arranged on her lap. Dean watched as she quickly attached a new head to an extension piece, the part that stayed in the body.

“You really  _don’t_ need to burn them, not when they’re impaled,” she commented while she secured the binding.

“Can’t hurt.”

“Waste of a good lighter.”

“Why, grandma, make you nostalgic for when they invented fire? Two stick method blow that much?”

“I was  _just_ starting to like you.”

She rubbed away her fingerprints with the hem of her shirt, buffing it to a near-shine, and Dean found himself both puzzled and mildly entertained when she promptly jammed it into the ground after clicking it onto the well-used polearm.

“So you’re not gonna tell me your secret? How you know they’re coming? I mean, besides the bells, but not many places with those left anymore. Unless you’re running around and— what?”

Her eyes had narrowed ever-so-slightly. "Are you screwing with me right now?“

Dean didn’t keep looking at her, didn’t reply, merely turned his head, scanning the yard, eyes lighting on one cross-top after another, though he did take a few healthy gulps of the wine.

It was, in her estimation, quite the long, ugly pause.

"Probably smart,” she offered.

“Hmm?”

“Not talking about it. Never have seen much sense in discussing… the past. Can’t tell it’s ever done anything.”

“Done anything at  _all?_ ”

“Frightened people.”

“You ever tell anybody about how you…. how…. I mean, your age?”

“Dean, has no one ever slapped you into learning it is impolite to discuss a lady’s age? And give my Bordeaux back, you lush.”

“You don’t look a  _day_  over —”

“Choose your next words with  _great_ care.”

He didn’t have to - the Impala had returned. Sam was displeased to hear of the hasty dispatch, given he’d made himself go into the only service station for miles, one which happened to neighbor the finest clown motel in the southwest, if not the entire  _country_ , possibly the  _continent_. She noted he needed a hug, and happily provided.

“Hey, we got a call…” Sam said to Dean, then lowered his voice. 

She took the hint, wandered away from the car a bit, til she heard one of them clear their throat. Turning, she noted Sam looking slightly downcast, hands in his pockets. Dean was fussing with the arsenal in the trunk, pulling several items out and transferring them to the backseat.

An emergent issue had arisen, they’d have to be on their way, and apologies were issued, explanations - vague ones - were given, but she shushed them away, though not terribly effectively.

“And you’re  _sure_ —-” Sam tried again.

“Can any of us  _ever_ be? I’m sure enough. Get out of here, deal with whatever it is, then get back to that basement of yours, eat a home-cooked meal, play some chess, or head to a bar, throw some darts in my honor.”

Sam raised his eyebrows.

“I’ll be  _fine_. Obey your elder,” she said, sternly but not overly-so, and he seemed to accept it.

“Keep in touch, okay?”

“Keep working on your strategy. Your game’s good, but it could use some fine-tuning.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

After Sam climbed in the car, she drifted to its rear. "Hey, Dean?“

He slammed the trunk, looked over his shoulder. "Yeah?”

“Only way to make sure you never get buried alive is to never get buried at all.”

Something distant washed over his face, flashed across his eyes - she saw it through the pitch - but it was gone in a slow, solemn blink. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You do that. 'Else you better climb fast. Or I’ll be seeing you.”

“You think you’d know?”

“Thinking’s not an option. I’d feel it. Deep in the bones.”

After they’d spun up some dust, and the taillights had faded, and she’d resumed her watch over the crooked crosses, and the last bits of smolder smoke wafted away, she killed off the last drops of wine, imagined how bright those eyes might’ve been before he died. But she didn’t linger in the past too long. Damned chills.

The empty bottle was tossed away. The spear was jerked from the ground, an extra head attached to the other end for good measure. She twirled it out of habit, switching from hand to hand, making windmills while she waited.

It was kind of pretty, that baker’s dozen ringing in near-harmony.

.

* * *

* * *

_**Author's Note** : That motel reference has to do with a post from my Tumblr, joking about [**The Clown Motel in Nevada**](http://www.atlasobscura.com/places/clown-motel), that's next to a graveyard, and how Sam would react to Dean telling him it's the only motel in town with a vacancy.  
_

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed. -Nash


End file.
